Yesterday, during a marathon knowledge creation session at my knowldege table, I wanted to send a text message to Louise to suggest tea and lighthearted discourse in Smokie Joes, the University sitting place.

But and article in The Irish Times about the Irish poet Pal Durcan, failed miserabley as it just made me think of Yeats and the proposed text message for tea in smokie joes became violated by County Sligos most googled son. The original poems are below for consideration and comparison.

Had I the heavens’ brewed cafes

Percolated with vanilla and caramel

The small, tall and the skinny lattes

Of orange mocha and gingerbread smell,

I would serve them to you in a silver mug

But I being poor have only Barrys tea

I have given you my tea in your favourite red mug

Slurp softly, for you slurp my tea

HAD I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet,
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams

I will arise and go now, and go to Smokies,

And a small treat enjoy there, of oats and chocolate made,

Long chats will I have there, a haven for you and me,

And sip coffee in the long loud hall.

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee;
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

Come away, oh human child! 

To the couches and my smiles 

With an oatbar, warm in hand, 

For the worlds more full of tea, than you can understand

 

Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand

Foto van 17 november

“Geef nooit het hele hart, want
liefde zal nauwelijks iets waard
zijn voor hartstochtelijke vrouwen
als alles zeker lijkt; zij houden
er niet van dat het van kus tot kus
verbleekt; alles wat lieflijk is
is maar een kort en dromerig genot.
O, geef het hart nooit onverkort
want zij, wat men ons ook vertelt,
leggen hun hele hart in ‘t spel.
En wie zal het te spelen wagen
als liefde hem met stomheid heeft geslagen?
Hij die dit schreef, hij weet het tot zijn spijt
want hij gaf heel zijn hart en was het kwijt.”

W.B. Yeats
vertaling J. Eijkelboom

Het orgineel:

NEVER give all the heart, for love
Will hardly seem worth thinking of
To passionate women if it seem
Certain, and they never dream
That it fades out from kiss to kiss;
For everything that’s lovely is
But a brief, dreamy. Kind delight.
O never give the heart outright,
For they, for all smooth lips can say,
Have given their hearts up to the play.
And who could play it well enough
If deaf and dumb and blind with love?
He that made this knows all the cost,
For he gave all his heart and lost.

William Butler Yeats

Since I’ve started learning fiddle, one of my favorite pieces is this nice oldie with lyrics by Yeats. Like many other Irish tunes, it’s got a long history with some twists and turns. Yeats wrote the poem in 1889. Then, in 1909, an Irish collector of folk songs and composer named Herbert Hughes set the words to an old air called “The Maids of the Mourne Shore.” A “sally” or “sallie” is an old Irish word for a willow tree. Here’s the best version I’ve found of this song, by singer Maura O’Connell (formerly of De Danaan), backed by a wonderful group of Irish musicians and American slide player Jerry Douglas.

The lyrics:
Down by the salley gardens my love and I did meet;
She passed the salley gardens with little snow-white feet.
She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the tree;
But I, being young and foolish, with her did not agree.

In a field down by the river my love and I did stand,
And on my leaning shoulder she laid her snow-white hand.
She bid me take life easy, as the grass grows on the weirs;
But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears.

Some pics from Parteen Villa Weir, O’Briensbridge, Montpelier, Castleconnell, Annacotty and Plassey here.

“He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven”

Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

                                                                                    -Yeats

While dealing with Yeats’s enigmatic question (and importantly the trail of experience leading up to it) Cleanth Brooks makes the following synthesis between “Among School Children” and Wordsworth’s “Intimations Ode”:

The mature man can see the harmony, the unity of being, possessed by the tree or the lamb or the child; but the price of being able to see it is not to possess it in one’s self, just as the price of possessing it in one’s self is an awareness that one does not possess it (The Well Wrought Urn, 190).

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned.
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

from The Second Coming — W.B. Yeats

Running across this passage just now made me realize how closely it mirrors the state of American news today — how bitterly and frighteningly true it holds when I consider organs such as Fox News, CNN, MSNBC et al.

The best lack all conviction, while the worst / Are full of passionate intensity

When I look south and see mobs of raving moralists cavorting and screaming nonsense in wild tea-orgies of anger-lust while brazen-voiced hucksters in expensive suits and cheap hair cuts cheer them on I tremble. I fear for the future. How closely it resembles the rise of Facism, gone not so many years now. Town Halls assailed by violent ignorance, reason crushed by delirious passion and bold assertion, dialogue replaced by unending sound-bit cacophony — interspersed forever with now a message from our sponsor.

And all the while those who oppose them stand back in numb wonderment. The snake’s gaze holds them, terrifies them and cajoles them. And with nightmarish logic they go to sleep in order to wake from the dream.

Hmmm…

ART VOLUME ONE PRESENTS:

The Road to Interzone: Reading William S. Burroughs Reading

by Michael Stevens

“The Road to Interzone is the result of a fascination with the works of William S. Burroughs and the literary influence that made his legendary canon of work possible. Here, the raw material of the shaping spirit of the imagination, is analyzed by presenting quotes and selections from Burroughs works (novels, interviews, criticism, etc.) alongside the primary literary sources that influenced him.

Also contained herein are listings from the recorded archives of the books Burroughs read through most of his lifetime. Redacted from university archives and WSB’s personal libraries, these listings attempt to catalog the source materials of what was to become Burroughs literary legacy.

The Road to Interzone provides the skeleton for an interpretation of the operational processes of influence and the function of artistic inspiration.”

“Editorial Review:

Michael Stevens has found the right vein, circulating raw material of the mind of visionary genius in post modern literature and art. His exhaustive compendia and matrix is like the fractal’s pattern bringing similarities that could reveal whole equation. He has provided the reader with the sources of allusion, influences, critiques, and the spirit of scatological obsessions of the late William S. Burroughs, the well-read innovator, inventor, and investigator in literature, art, culture and cosmology. Ezra Pound once advised readers who thought the Cantos too obscure, to just think of them as people throughout history sitting around talking. This book allows me the conversations with Uncle Bill that I unfortunately neglected in his presence. –Charles Plymell

To scan Michael Stevens’ bibliography is to dream of entering into William Burroughs’ head from a new angle — not from his writings but from his readings. You can’t live Burroughs’ life but you can read the books he read. You can infect yourself with the same word virus he picked up in writers ranging from Abrahamson (Crime and the Human Mind) to Yeats ( ‘cast a cold eye on life, a cold eye on death…’ ) Will these get you any closer to the mutations Burroughs performed on the word virus? Doubtless you’ll understand the man and his work better. And perhaps, with the help of the creative reading Burroughs espoused, Road to Interzone will even put you in position to subject the same viral sources to a few new mutations of your own. –RealityStudio.org

‘A fascinating and richly helpful piece of literary archeology, tracing as broadly as possible the sources William Burroughs had available to him as he wrote. Both the title and the method echo the classic Road to Xanadu, John Livingston Lowes excavation of Coleridge s reading: Coleridge, like Burroughs, being more than a little interested in drugs. It is a work for which all Burroughs students should be grateful.’ –Larry McMurtry“

EXCERPTED FROM: LOOK AT, READ ABOUT & OWN IT HERE!

SUICIDEPRESS.COM

-

FILM:

William S Burroughs – Commissioner of Sewers

wiki: 上綱上線

I have spread my dreams under your feet;

Tread softly, because you tread on my dreams.

以下節錄自

真正邪惡的契約，叫做社會契約

哈哈! 不錯不錯, 嘴砲界還沒有沉淪下去, 還是有不少人蠻有邏輯思辯及分析問題的水準

4,5,6,9F 樓主都能一針见寫的指出問題來探討, 這才是就版論版就事論事的正確嘴砲方式啊….

4F 樓主同時也再幫個人對版主問了一次長久以來沒有問題的答案

就算生出畸形兒，亂倫了又如何？

真妙, 回去看到4F 樓主在那版也有回應….不過版主沒回應就是了…
此版版主終於回應了: "社會契約的內容應該極小化，任何非涉侵害的都不應規範，交由私人決定"

此版是上綱到這個大前提, 自由市場的精神, 那要如何實際向下到探討各種相關的議題? 如政府禁止血親亂倫? 自由市場的精神是政府不得限制亂倫,

鄉民不免要問: 無政府或有限度政府管制會減少現有的問題及不會帶來更多現在沒有的問題嗎? 若是肯定的, 這個一定很多人願意朝這方向走….若是存疑的, 而又都對存疑者嗤之以鼻, 那這似乎就成為無理可辯的精神信仰之爭了…..

"(鄉民邏輯: 原先問題存在 —> 沒有政府管制後問題繼續存在或更嚴重 —> 兩者問題一樣都存在沒有改善 —> 那繼續管制吧)

版主，您的論述中缺乏了這種建設性的提議(如何解決問題)，當然在此詭辯是不需要有建設性的(也不需解決問題)，只是這只會流於空談口水搬不上檯面。"

真是有趣, 版主已經成為實實在在的 [Man of Faith] 了……

THAT is no country for old men. The young
In one another’s arms, birds in the trees
- Those dying generations – at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.

Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.

Perhaps our scouting was not worthy of a merit badge, but it was a valuable reminder about the investment needed when fishing new water, especially if fishing without the benefit of a guide. For every hour we were on the water during our fall retreat in Iowa, the LBTS spent twice as much time scouting.

We started with the trout map which seemed indecipherable.  The scale was difficult to read.  We had trouble finding the names of the small streams and roads. The posted street signs were not referenced on our map which included only numerical road designations. Not all fishable streams listed in the text were identified on the map. 

After thirty minutes of confusion, the best course seemed to be a visit to the Highlandville General Store and “fly shop” that was located along the South Bear, a renowned Iowa stream containing big trout. 

The lovely gentleman in the shop sold us our licenses, during which a long line formed behind us.  One of the patrons, waiting with a six-pack, was irked to learn that we intended to fish with a fly.  Still other patrons, fly fishermen themselves, filled us in on their previous day’s good luck, inviting us to follow them on their way to fish that morning.  Had we accepted their invitation, perhaps we would have discovered a driftless paradise sooner than we did. 

Our collective memory is already hazy, but the general impression of the South Bear, from where we eventually started our scouting, was one of shoulder to shoulder combat fishing.  There is hyperbole in that statement but a kernel of truth exists.  Ladies on retreat do not want to fish with a crowd.

The lower sections of the North Bear were much the same as the south.  Disappointed, but maybe not surprised considering the big fish reputation and predilection for bait, the ladies abandoned the acclaimed North and South Bear rivers for the less acclaimed Waterloo.  To our satisfaction we found it: personal space, brown trout and peace.

The following day our renewed vigor prompted us to explore sections of Pine Creek, South Pine, Patterson and Coon, all of which were discolored, overgrown, or low.  The West Canoe seemed fine, but our weekend hours were dwindling and so, out of fear for not putting line to water, we drove back to the Waterloo and the very same section we fished the day before.  Working upstream, we cast our midge patterns into deep holes formed at the base of uprooted trees and fast runs over shallow ledges.  The few remaining minutes were spent casting a parachute Adam’s and midge pupae trailer to rising fish working a long slow run. 

All in all, the LBTS felt the trip worthwhile and, considering our scouting investment, would consider northeast Iowa a candidate for next year’s retreat.   In the meantime, we’ll read Jeffery Skeate’s book, Familiar World, a collection of essays about fishing the Midwest’s Driftless Region.  We picked up a copy of his book while browsing the Chick Store (& fly shop) in Decorah.  Mr. Skeate appears to enjoy the work of William Butler Yeats, an LBTS favorite.  We’re looking forward to a wintry day in a comfortable chair, hot toddy in one hand and Mr. Skeate’s book in the other.

Note: Upon our return from the retreat in Iowa, the LBTS found an article about fall fishing in Iowa, by Mr. Skeates, in the October issue of Midwest Fly Fishing.  We’re filing that issue in our retreat literature for future reference.

And fastened to a dying animal.

When I was in college in 1963, I was blessed with knowledge of the work of Yeats.  So I guess I knew what to expect.

He had a poem about a rabbit, trying to keep it safe, and then one day it is gone.

Isn’t that what it is?

In your life, you pick what you’re going to protect.  He wrote, “A pity beyond all telling is hid in the heart of love.  The folk who are buying and selling, the clouds on their journey above, and the cold, wet winds ever blowing in the shadowy hazel grove, where mouse-grey waters are flowing, threaten the head that I love.”

Today, I attended a very interesting lecture on Poetry as Language of Persuasion’ delivered by one of the best living poets of Gujarat Sitanshu Yashashchandra Mehta at Forum of Contemporary Theory, Vadodara. Evoking the epics by Dante and Valmiki, Prof Mehta discussed how poetry is an account of travel and journey. The lecture was organized under the national workshop on ` Towards an Ecology of Knowledge’ by the Forum on Contemporary Theory and Balvant Parekh Centre for General Semantics and other Human Sciences. Prof Mehta was critical of the Indian intellectual’s reliance on the Western paradigms. He advised us not be the ` darlings of the West’ by quoting Derrida etc. He was also critical of the idea of ` General Semantics‘ as being imported. He remarked that the experts in General Semantics’ who had come to enlighten the participants of the workshop would be rewarded if the young Indian scholars would `offer them `our’ riches, as intellectual return gifts’. He then talked of the ancient Indian poetics  and talked about the mythical story of the origin of poetry where Valmiki, the composer of the Ramayana, saw a hunter kill one of the Krauncha birds which were mating nearby. Valmiki , as the legend goes, was so deeply grieved ( shoka= grief) by the plight of birds that he composed the first shloka ( a couplet) of the Ramayana. The inspiration for the epic came from the grief of a bird. Prof Mehta also talked about Auden’s famous elegy on Yeats , quoting the following lines:

 In the nightmare of the dark
          All the dogs of Europe bark,

Prof Mehta pointed out how the poets have to descend the depths of darkness when the dogs of Europe ( like Musolini , Hitler and, Prof Mehta said, Indians would add Churchill) barked ceaselessly.

In the question answer session, yours faithfully expressed his reservations and doubts ( as usual). I said that the whole idea of ` our riches’ is not that simple. Determination of what  is `ours’ is probably as violent as `othering’. Who decides what is `ours’ and who would feel that the `ours’ is not really `ours’, I asked.

I also pointed out that forget the Congress vs the BJP or the notion of activism or of ideology ( the things ,our reputed poet , should not pressurize  a poet to write certain type of poetry). I said even if we stayed within the classical notion of poetry of shloka( poetry)  being inspired by shoka ( grief) of a dying bird, I dont understand why so many poets ( I was not referring to him in particular but many Gujarati poets ) did not find inspiration or feel shoka in the Gujarat carnage of 2002 and write shlokas about it. Instead, I said continuing the Audenesqe analogy,  they preferred to join the Dogs of India in barking. Had Valmiki been alive, he would not have preferred the seclusion of his hermitage in such circumstances. I said that the question was not of ideology but of the poet’s sensitivity.

Prof Mehta, very kindly responded that he like many others had indulged in silences but one should not be selective in protesting. One should not just protest the killings after the Godhra tragedy but also protest the death of people who died in the train, he said. He said we should also protest the plight of Kashmiri pandits who have lost their homes.

I thought to myself how can a person who does not understand or sympathize with  the tragedy of the rape and pregnant women near home can ever understand the tragedy of people living in Kashmir.

Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of the night the light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

– W B Yeats 1888

Sacrifice For A Dancer’s 42nd(because she wanted yeats

If
as you say
love is sacrifice
then I would sacrifice
any chance at loving life
with you
to give you that Gift
and this poem
at your desire!

The child glowing, grows there
From the life, grass mown green.
She steps lightly on her
Circuits round. Escaping nothing
She gains her youth.

A man, stranger to her
Offers her the Lead. Shy
Away or Forwards. Gently
And happily or sadly
Grow a dancer.

Will we
go home with fleshy petals
and you watching
over and through me
like all the growing
of pollen golden
flowing over
the tidal line
dividing
life and more life.

Lunghezza collana 68 cm (+ 4,5 pendente)

Pietre: agata verde striata nel pendente e corallo green ocean

Lunghezza orecchini, gancio compreso, 7,5 cm

La carta utilizzata per le perle è quella della fotografia qui a sinistra  di W. B. Yeats. Dedicata al poeta si veda la splendida versione online della mostra ” The Life and Works of William Butler Yeats” curata dalla Biblioteca nazionale irlandese

And her hair was a folded flower
And the quiet of love in her feet. (The Cap and Bells)

Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly, because you tread on my dreams.

WB Yeats